My Al Bundy moment

Christine never gets tired of hearing about the year I hit .714 and led my team of misfits to an undefeated season in my town's junior baseball league.

{This is a sorta cute story the first time you hear it. I've now heard it probably more than 100 times. It's not so cute anymore.}

The year was 1989, and for some reason, all the crappy players like me were dumped on one team. I was 12 at the time. Every team had one 12-year-old because nearly all the competent players that age were in the higher league. So, as Christine likes to remind me, I was playing against kids a lot younger and smaller than me.

But that's irrelevant. I had the season of my life, getting a hit in every game and making the All-Star game. Really, that was a thrill for me.

We went undefeated until a fateful playoff game. Everything was off. The coach's kid got hurt, so I had to move from first base to shortstop. I was built more like Cecil Fielder than Ozzie Smith in those days, so I was terrified. I didn't have any mishaps in the field, but I got to return to first base after my friend, who was pitching for the other team, drilled me in the leg. There were imprints from the ball's stitches in my leg for a week.

{Are you rolling your eyes yet?}

I made an out in the last inning - can't remember if it was the final out - by smoking a liner that the pitcher's twin brother snared at first base.

We lost. I cried. Oh, and it's important to note that it was very rainy that day, and no umpires showed up, so one of the fathers from the other team got to call balls and strikes. I'm not bitter or anything.

Keeping a promise I made with Christine, I ditched the trophies temporarily salvaged from my parents' attic - one is for winning a division, another for the All-Star team and the little one is for "graduating" from the league after the season. Hey ... what's that other silver one? Who put the Phillies travel mug in the picture?